Truth poems

 / page 152 of 257 /
star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Love Me Little, Love Me Long

© Pierre Reverdy

Love me little, love me long,

Is the burden of my song.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

To A Young Gentleman In Love. A Tale

© Matthew Prior

From publick Noise and factious Strife,

From all the busie Ills of Life,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

For The Meeting Of The National Sanitary Association

© Oliver Wendell Holmes

WHAT makes the Healing Art divine?
The bitter drug we buy and sell,
The brands that scorch, the blades that shine,
The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell?

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

To A Scientific Friend

© Horace Smith

You say 'tis plain that poets feign,

  And from the truth depart;

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart From the South-West Coast Or Cumberland 1811

© William Wordsworth

FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Interrupted Meditation

© Robert Hass

Little green involute fronds of fern at creekside.

And the sinewy clear water rushing over creekstone

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

from A Passage to India

© Walt Whitman

Passage to India!
Lo, soul! seest thou not God’s purpose from the first? 
The earth to be spann’d, connected by network, 
The races, neighbors, to marry and be given in marriage, 
The oceans to be cross’d, the distant brought near,
The lands to be welded together. 

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

An Ode on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland, Considered as the Subject of Poetry

© William Taylor Collins

Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long

  Have seen thee ling'ring, with a fond delay,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Preface

© Wilfred Owen

  This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak

  of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Causerie

© Allen Tate

. . . party on the stage of the Earl Carroll Theatre on
Feb. 23. At this party Joyce Hawley, a chorus-girl,
bathed in the nude in a bathtub filled with alleged
wine. New York Times.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Upon A Branch Of Flowering Acacia

© Frances Anne Kemble

The blossoms hang again upon the tree,

  As when with their sweet breath they greeted me

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

What I Have Seen #3

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

I saw two youths: both were fair in the face,
They had set out foot to foot in life's race;
But one said to the other, "I say now, my brother,
You are going a little too slow;
The world will look on, and say, 'See Josy John,'
We must put on more style, now, you know."

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

The Child Of The Islands - Autumn

© Caroline Norton

I.
BROWN Autumn cometh, with her liberal hand
Binding the Harvest in a thousand sheaves:
A yellow glory brightens o'er the land,

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

My Lady Of Verne

© Madison Julius Cawein

It all comes back as the end draws near;
  All comes back like a tale of old!
  Shall I tell you all? Will you lend an ear?
  You, with your face so stern and cold;
  You, who have found me dying here ...

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Imitations of Horace

© Alexander Pope

While you, great patron of mankind, sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Lying

© Lola Ridge

To claim, at a dead party, to have spotted a grackle,

When in fact you haven’t of late, can do no harm.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Paracelsus:

© Diane di Prima

Pulp,  manna,   gentle
                    Theriasin, ergot
like mold on flame, these red leaves
bursting
                    from mesquite by the side
of dry creekbed.         Extract

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

Jenny

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 It was a careless life I led
When rooms like this were scarce so strange
Not long ago. What breeds the change,—
The many aims or the few years?
Because to-night it all appears
Something I do not know again.

star nullstar nullstar nullstar nullstar null

To Delia

© William Cowper

Me to whatever state the gods assign,

Believe, my love, whatever state be mine,